With Cai and Bors before and Arthur behind him, Baldulf’s choices were few. Cut off from reaching their ships on the eastern shore, the escaping barbarians turned northward. They hoped to pass unnoticed through one of the many hidden dales and glens that seamed the lowland hills.
They did this and reckoned themselves more than fortunate, for they happened upon a ruined Roman fortress. There are no less than half a dozen of the old marching camps in the hills, camps that served Trimontium, the largest stronghold in the region. Nothing remains of Trimontium save a hump in the grass near the Twide, but the smaller forts were made of stone and withstood the wind and weather. It was one of these that Baldulf found—Caer Gwynnion, the White Fort. Though the wooden gates were long gone, those solid stone walls still commanded the dale below.
The second day after the battle, Cai’s forces joined us. We broke camp the next morning and marched north up the dale of the Aloent toward Caer Gwynnion. In all we were light-hearted: our forces were replenished, the foe was in retreat, and our prospects for a decisive victory and an early return to the south were good. So we passed along the green-sided hills and the rushing water, and sparkling larksong filled our ears. What could be better?
We had never attacked a Roman fort before. And although we knew well how to defend one, assaulting one is a world of difference. Small wonder the Celts of old never won a war. Even in ruins, those strongholds are devilishly difficult to defeat.
Indeed, the barbarians learned a new tactic. Nevermore did we face them in the field—they knew they could not win there! After Celyddon the fighting would be from behind the sheltering walls of a fortress.
The Angli had been deserted by their allies. The Picti had long since fled the battle and had vanished into their high moorland wilderness. The Irish, all that remained, had gone home. Only Baldulf and his kinsmen, Ebissa and Oesc, were left with their host—now pared to fewer than thirty thousand.
The British host had diminished, too. We numbered little more than ten thousand: two thousand horse, and the rest on foot. But a good few of those were fresh troops—those who had been with Cai and Bors. These had seen no fighting yet, and were eager to win their mead portion and a share of the plunder.
The siege of Caer Gwynnion commenced on a cold, windswept day of the kind that come so frequently and suddenly in the north. Light rain whipped at our faces. The trails became slippery with mud. The horses and wagons were left behind in the valley below where Arthur directed the camp to be established. An ala in full flying gallop is not much use against the stone walls of a fortress.
We were not foolish enough to storm the walls unaided. That is madness and defeat, as anyone knows. So, Arthur turned his memory back to the same Romans who had built the fortress, adopting a tactic the legionaries used with unrivalled success against the timber hillforts of the Celts. We laid siege to the stronghold, and then set about constructing battle machines.
Myrddin’s knowledge served us here, for he knew how such machines should be made, and he directed their construction. We made a wheeled tower with a doorway slightly higher than the walls of the fortress. We also built an onager with which to hurl stones into the walls and yard.
The machines were made of timber that had to be dragged up from the dale below by horse. It was slow and tedious work, but in five days they were finished and the battle could begin in earnest.
When the barbarians saw the tower erected, they set up a hideous howl. And when the first stones began streaking from the sky like comets, they screamed in rage and frustration. They stripped naked and ran along the tops of the walls, presenting themselves openly, hoping to draw us into range of their axes and hammers and stones.
But Arthur remained unmoved. He commanded that no man should approach the walls, and we all stayed well back and let the war machines do their work. We kept the stones flying day and night, moving the onager continually so that the enemy could find no safe refuge within the walls.
Within three days they were well battered and hungry. When the seventh day had passed, they were weak and stupid with hunger. Then did Arthur order the tower to be wheeled to the wall. The best warriors were inside the tower, led by Cai, who demanded the privilege of directing the battle.
God love him, he argued so ardently and so well that Arthur gave him Caledvwlch to wear, just to show that Cai had the Duke’s full authority in command.
The warriors formed the tortoise—a simple maneuver by which a barrier of interlocked shields is raised over the heads of those who must approach the wall—and advanced slowly, pushing the great tower before them. Arthur and I watched the battle from the fair vantage of a rock outcrop nearby.
Brave I am, foremost in battle, yet I cannot say I would gladly have been the first to leap through the tower door onto the wall. Cai did that, showing magnificent courage, battling with a dozen or more alone until one by one his men joined him. I do not know how he was not killed the moment his foot touched the wall.
Gwalchavad, Cador, and Owain led their warbands into the tower next, followed by Maelgwn, Bors, and Ceredig. Once these first gained the fortress wall, we could not keep the rest away. The other kings crowded one another for places beneath the tower, so that a long line of warriors stretched back from the fortress wall.
The first fighting took place on the wall itself, as I have said. But the battle quickly carried to the yard below, and that was dreadful. There was no room to swing a sword without hitting foe or friend alike, so the Cymbrogi worked with their spears. Had they been threshers they could not have taken a greater harvest! The barbarians thought to crush the attack by sheer weight of numbers, and so threw their naked bodies against the British spears. The bodies fell one upon the other—a wall of twitching limbs!—before Cai and the Cymbrogi, and the enemy were forced to crawl over the corpses of their kin to fight.
The British were swarming over the wall now, hurling spears down into the churning chaos. There were so many Angli pent up within the caer that our warriors killed with every throw.
“There is no honor in this,” I observed. “It is a slaughter of unknowing beasts.”
“Baldulf is as stubborn as he is proud,” Arthur said. “But it will be ended soon.”
As if to make a prophet of Arthur, the gateway—which had been stopped up with rocks and rubble—suddenly collapsed outward in a white cloud of dust, and the enemy stormed out. The British kings were ready. Custennin, Ennion, Ogryvan, and Ceredig ran forth to engage the foe. The sound of the clash reached the rock where we sat.
“Are we going down there?” I indicated the battle spreading before us.
Arthur gave his head a sharp shake. “There is no need. We will let Cai and the kings have this victory.” He turned his horse away. “Come, we will await them in the valley.”
Baldulf’s stubbornness cost him the battle. His pride cost him his life.
The barbarian would not surrender and even when the battle was well-lost, he refused quarter. Cador killed him and set the Bretwalda’s head on the end of his own skull-and-bone battle standard. He then set the standard over the corpses heaped before Caer Gwynnion.
Arthur received the victorious host in the dale. Cai, Cador, Bors, and Gwalchavad led the long march down to the camp. Arthur set up his camp chair before the ford, and when the warriors crossed he welcomed them as heroes and champions and gave them all gifts.
Cai and the others were well pleased, for the pickings were meager on the hill. Not so much as a gold earring or even a brass pin did they get there. Arthur made up the lack from the share of plunder he had saved for them. He then proposed a victory feast.
Ah, but our hearts were not in it. Weary of battle, our thoughts were on the homeward road. Harvesttime was drawing near; the kings were anxious to return to their realms. They had been gone from their affairs long enough. The war, for this year at least, was won. It was time to go home.
So, we formed ranks and traversed the long, wide dale of Twide eastward to where the ships lay at anchor on the coast
. Then we set sail for the south.
Highest Heavenlies be praised! Our return to Caer Melyn was all golden gladness and sweet joy. The people gathered at Arthur’s hillfort and thronged the track from the ford to the very gates of the stronghold. They cheered and sang as we passed among them. Most of them were Meurig’s folk, with a good few from surrounding cantrefs as well. But their welcome was every whit as genuine and heartfelt.
Arthur, first in generosity, feasted them and stood the celebration of our summer’s victories out of his own treasury. The other kings enjoyed his largess, but none offered to help provide so much as a pig or a goat for the feast.
If that is all their renown is worth, so be it. For myself, I would not care to risk a bard’s mocking tongue for the price of a few pigs or bullocks.
After the feast, the kings departed to their own realms, and we set about ordering the stores—for the tribute had already begun to flow into Caer Melyn from all who had pledged to uphold the War Leader. The news of Arthur’s victories had stirred the lords of Britain to something resembling extravagance.
Though the winter proved dark and cold, and the snow deep—as deep as ever I have seen it, I think: clothing the hilltops and mountains in cloaks of purest white, and enfolding the valleys in mantles of thick fleece—we did not mind. The fire burned bright in Arthur’s hall, and Myrddin sang the songs of valor and great deeds. Our hearts soared.
At midwinter we observed a fine and holy Christ Mass. The new-made Bishop Teilo performed the mass, joined by Illtyd and other churchmen of renown in the region. Indeed, the Church seemed especially eager to lavish its blessing on Arthur’s golden head, for they saw in him the preservation of their sacred work from the ravages of the barbarians and their loathly idols. Indeed, the good brothers were the first to suffer the slaughter and torture of the heathen; always it was a priest’s blood spilled on the ruined altar, the monk’s body put to the flame.
So, the churchmen were right to bless Arthur, and eager to offer up every prayer for his continued good health and long life. In all, the Christ Mass at Caer Melyn that year gave us all a foretaste of Arthur’s reign. And a more blessed and joyous realm I could not imagine, nor hope to find anywhere.
The winter proved far too short for my pleasure. Warmth crept back into the land; the sun lingered longer in the lifting sky. Rivers swelled with rain, the wind gentled, and the green land blossomed.
As soon as the trackways cleared, I rode to the hill-hidden breeding runs to oversee the year’s colting. The breeders and trainers had done their work well: two hundred horses stood ready to join the ala. Arthur’s warband would not have to walk to battle this year—nor, from the look of it, for many years to come.
I did not deceive myself that the war was over. Even with their Bretwalda dead, the Angli would not give up. They would simply choose a new leader and the war would begin again.
Had I possessed Myrddin’s exalted Sight, I could not have foreseen who that leader would be, nor how powerful.
The ships began guarding the coastline as soon as the winter gales ceased for good. From Muir Guidan to the Wash, all along the Bernich coast the ships kept a restless watch. Alas, that was not how the enemy would strike this time. There would be no more sea raids, no more massed attacks on the open field, no more pitched battles at fords. The barbarians respected Arthur’s genius that much at least. From now on we would fight a different war.
* * *
One morning just after Beltane a small retinue arrived at Caer Melyn. Dressed in their best finery, I did not at first know them: a dozen men in red-and-black checked cloaks, and bright tunics and trousers of blue and orange. Their hair was greased and braided, and their beards trimmed short. Gold and silver glinted from their arms, necks, and ears. They held themselves erect, proud and haughty, men and women both astride stocky, winter-shagged ponies—a company of thirty in all, including a grey-mantled druid going before to lead them.
“They are a colorful brood,” I remarked, observing the strangers from my place beside Arthur. “Who are they?”
Arthur’s blue eyes narrowed as he scanned the group gathered in the yard. All at once, recognition broke like sunrise across his face. “Fergus!”
The Duke strode forth to receive his visitor while I stood gaping in disbelief. Fergus? Here? I thought that we had seen the last of him.
“Hail, Duke of Britain! I give you good greeting,” called Fergus mac Guillomar in his thickly accented tongue. He spoke with due formality, but then swung down from his horse and embraced Arthur like a kinsman.
“What do you here, Irishman?” asked Arthur mildly. Yet the question was direct.
“I have come with my retinue to pay the tribute of gold and hostages that I owe.”
Arthur grinned, obviously pleased. “I own the right of tribute, it is true. But I have made no demands on you.”
“Am I a barbarian that I repay honor with dishonor?” Fergus demanded. He turned quickly to his retinue, now dismounting and called one of them forth.
A dark lanky youth with a long, serious face and deep-set black eyes under brooding brows stepped forward. He carried a long spear with a gleaming silver head. Across his shoulders he wore a cloak made from wildcat skins. The torc of braided silver at his throat spoke of nobility.
“This is Llwch Llenlleawg,” said Fergus proudly. “He is the champion of our people. He is also my sister’s son, my fosterling and kinsman. I deliver him as hostage to you. May his service bring you great reward.”
Arthur appraised the young man thoughtfully—not wishing to offend Fergus by rejecting his offer outright. But before he could speak, the Irish king beckoned another to him: a slender young woman.
I have known and admired many young women, but this one was like no other I had ever seen. Her hair, so black it shimmered with a blue sheen in the sun, was pulled back to fall around her graceful neck and shoulders in a mass of braids: deepest jet against the pure alabaster of her flawless skin. She wore a disdainful expression, her lips pressed firmly together and her chin outthrust, as she regarded Arthur with keen grey eyes the color of a dove’s wing or the mist that comes down from the mountain in the morning. The high, noble sweep of her brows and straight nose gave her the aspect of a queen.
Her long slender fingers held tightly to the haft of a spear. She carried a golden dagger on one smooth hip, a short sword on the other, and a small bronze-bossed shield on a braided cord over one slim shoulder. Her cloak was soft wool dyed deepest red, gathered in an enormous golden brooch upon her breast. Most surprising of all, she wore a shirt of Angli mail, but the ringlets were small and exquisite, made of silver. It gleamed as she moved, like shining water rippling over her fair form.
She was dazzling and, despite her battledress, easily the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. She advanced slowly and came to stand beside Fergus, though her gaze never left Arthur. The look she gave him could have cut steel, I think, but the Duke seemed not to notice.
“This is Gwenhwyvar,” Fergus said, “my daughter.”
He signalled the druid, who came forth with a bundle of cloth in his outstretched hands. The druid gave the bundle to Arthur, and then unwrapped the cloth to reveal four golden torcs of the most remarkable quality and design—each more beautiful than the last.
It was clear that Fergus was giving Arthur his most highly prized possessions: his champion, his daughter, the ancient treasures of his people.
Arthur was rightly speechless. He stared at the gold, and then at the girl and the warrior, and back to Fergus. “I am honored,” he said at length. “Your tribute shames my small kindness.”
“I have pledged my life, Duke Arthur, and I know well what my life is worth,” replied Fergus proudly.
“I accept your tribute and your fealty, O King.”
What have you done, Arthur? I wondered. We will never see the end of this now!
Arthur gripped Fergus’ arms like a kinsman. “Come, my friend,” he announced boldly, “we will share the gue
st cup.”
Fergus beamed his pleasure, gratified to be treated this way by Arthur. I stood in the yard, gazing after them as they all moved into the hall. I was not the only one disturbed by this development. For as I turned to follow the others, I saw Myrddin standing a little away.
“Did you hear?” I asked.
“I heard.”
“Well?”
“There is much in this that I do not like.”
“Oh, it is trouble,” I agreed. “All saints bear witness, nothing good comes of accepting gifts from the Irish.”
Myrddin frowned, dismissing my observation with a distracted wave of his hand. “It is more than that, Jealous One.”
He turned away, and I charged after him. “Jealous! Me? Why do you call me jealous?”
But Myrddin would not answer. He made his way into the hall and to his place beside Arthur at the hearth table. The cups had been filled and were passing from hand to hand. I reluctantly joined the odd celebration and drank when the cup came to me. I noticed that Myrddin did not drink, however, but hovered at Arthur’s shoulder like a guarding angel.
It was not until late afternoon that Myrddin gained opportunity of speaking to Arthur in private. “A word, Arthur,” he said, and moved off toward the Duke’s chamber at the end of the hall. Arthur rose, and since he did not bid me stay, I went with him.
“It is a mistake,” the Emrys said at once, his tone low and serious. “You cannot accept the tribute.”
Arthur spread his hands helplessly. “But I have already done so.”
“Undo it.”
“I cannot, even if I wanted to—which I do not.”
“You can and must.”
“What is it, Myrddin? What is troubling you?”
Myrddin was silent for a long moment. “It is the woman,” he said at last.
“What about her?” asked Arthur innocently. “I saw nothing in her to cause such dread.”
“She is a queen…”
“She is Fergus’ daughter—”
Arthur: Book Three of the Pendragon Cycle Page 31
